


My Homage to Sunrise in Lowcut Jeans

by FrancesHouseman



Series: Dreams and Fantasies [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dream Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 05:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/922338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam starts talking about dream root on the third day they stay holed up together in the Batcave. They have enough supplies to last for weeks and Dean is more than happy to forego fresh treats like pie if he can keep getting more of Sam. Neither have been fully clothed, or even out of bed for longer than an hour or two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Homage to Sunrise in Lowcut Jeans

 

 

Sam starts talking about dream root on the third day they stay holed up together in the Batcave. They have enough supplies to last for weeks and Dean is more than happy to forego fresh treats like pie if he can keep getting more of Sam. Neither have been fully clothed, or even out of bed for longer than an hour or two.

 

He holds out until Sam gives him an incredible blowjob. They both know that it is completely unnecessary, that Dean would give Sam anything he wants, but then they both enjoy it much too much not to play along. Dean would have agreed to stick pins in his eyes if Sam had insisted that it was a good idea.

 

“So we’ll be going into your dream then?” he teases, just to see Sam’s bitch-face. His brother is so eager to get into his dreams that it's funny, scary and awesome, all rolled into one.

         

They sit together on Dean’s bed, swig the root concoction that is laced with Dean’s hair, and lie back, fingers touching.

 

It’s a cathedral. There is sunlight streaming in through the gigantic eastern window, blazing through the picture in stained glass: two men lounging under a tree in dappled light. Dean is wearing his old leather jacket and jeans, his head resting in Sam’s lap. He’s gazing up into his brother’s face with a look that is pure adoration. Sam’s hair is falling over his face but his answering smile is clear.

 

“Woah.” Sam takes a few steps back wide-eyed. There are no pews, just a vast empty floor space to stagger into. He wheels round a few times, trying to take it all in: the other windows, the columns, statues, the impossibly high dome and ceilings. Dean dives forward to steady Sam as he bends, grasping his knees. “Dizzy,” he says, but he’s smiling.

 

They explore tentatively, like reverent tourists. Dean knows that this is all in his head but he can’t quite believe that he dreamt this stuff up. He’s not even sure that he knows enough about actual cathedrals to manage it.

 

The floor is made up of grey stone. Every now and then there’s a larger grave-sized slab with a rendering in multicolored marble depicting deciding moments in the cases they have worked over the years. There is Sam wielding a machete, vampire heads flying; Dean running from a possessed Impala, which has Sam bent double with laughter for a while. A good few of the slabs are cases from when they were young, their father shooting, slashing and wrestling by their sides. Most are just Sam and Dean, hunting together. It really brings home how much they have done. There are many many dead monsters and banished ghosts.

 

Other windows show scenes from their lives, some imagined, some historical fact. It’s always the two of them together and the general theme seems to be Moments of Tenderness According to Dean. The colors are emphasized and beautiful in the sunlight, the green of Dean’s eyes, the pink of Sam’s lips, the crimson blood spilling from Dean’s wounds as Sam tends to him. A couple of the images would qualify as hardcore porn but Sam only seems proud when he points this out.

 

The ceiling is made up of great ribbed vaulting arches, giving the impression of being inside a giant whale carcass. Each vault is inscribed with deep etchings; Enochian sigils to hide them from the angels. Dean thinks there may be irony there somewhere.

 

There’s an inscription, high up, where the whalebones meet the lower ceiling. It’s just legible from ground level. Sam squints and reads:

_“Loosed from the claws of Death’s Familiar…_

Oh my God Dean! This was my freeform poetry assignment when I was sixteen.” He looks a little embarrassed, “I didn’t know you’d seen it.”

 

Dean just smiles. He had found it by idle curiosity amongst Sam’s other schoolwork in a daytime-empty apartment, with nothing else to do. He keeps pace in his mind as Sam reads:

_“…we fall into morning. Cling to the memory of whirling! We danced the Devil’s Dream: Salt, delirium and skin.”_

Sam laughs. His dimples are showing and it’s lovely. “I’d forgotten all about this. I submitted it but we moved before I got a grade. I knew we would or I’d’ve handed something else in.” He follows the inscription along the south wall:

_“Leather to cloth and nape to brow, sleep-warm our bodies and breath. God’s own windblown sand cradling an army of three, Seeking salvation in country rock.”_

He turns to the west wall and continues:

_“Slumbers escape in downy drifts, in feverish miles like distant thunder, And sleep takes flight in an omen of wings, shadows and hunger. We rest at a highway shrine.”_

Sam turns to read the inscription on the north wall but doesn’t speak so Dean finishes it, speaking softly, almost a whisper:

_“Denim unfurls in line with our orders: to stretch out the dust and the sin. Coffee steam curls, silence and gasoline hot and bitter on my tongue: My homage to Sunrise in low cut jeans.”_

Sam laughs again but the sound is awkward, too harsh in the echoes. “Kind of obvious I guess. It didn’t seem that way at the time.” He looks embarrassed but Dean just drinks it in. Sam asked for this after all.

 

The amulet is trapped inside a five inch block of glass, set into a wall. Dean has thumped, kicked and clawed at the surface and now he’s looking around for something heavy to smash against it, desperate to get it back. Sam stops him, holding his forearms and pulling him into a hug. “It’s okay, you can’t get it, it’s only a dream, shhhh.”

 

“Sam. I’m so sorry,” Dean sounds choked to his own ears. He had tried to get the amulet back, calling the motel and even tracking down the cleaner, but it was gone. “I…”

 

“Shhh.” Sam presses his lips to Dean’s to silence him and then they just stand there for a while, holding onto each other. Sam feels when Dean’s okay again because he releases him gently.

 

There’s a small door, not noticeable at first, but now that Dean sees it he thinks it goes down. He thinks there might be a whole sub-level beneath them and he’s just about to mention it to Sam when Sam starts exclaiming over a monstrosity of an organ that has caught his attention. There are golden pipes reaching right up to the ceiling. Dean is definitely not a fan of organ music, unless it’s for effect in a Hammer Horror, or Bach’s Fugue, which is crazy-creepy but in a good way. He can’t understand why anyone would write music to be played on an organ but he figures that maybe his idea of a cathedral has to include one or something.

 

When the music starts it definitely doesn’t come from the organ; it comes from everywhere. Sam smiles because it’s a song he knows from childhood. One that he hasn’t heard for a while because Dean doesn’t play it anymore, not since Sam came back from Stanford. The emotion attached to the music coupled with Sam’s smile twists in Dean’s chest and he has to fight down the sudden urge to cry.

 

“This is Zeppelin?”

 

“Going to California, yeah. I used to listen to it a lot, you know, when you were at Stanford. Thought about going to California a lot.” Dean’s body tries to echo the emotional mess he had been in the last time he played this song, finally driving back to Sam on that Halloween night that seems so many worlds away. He shakes it off, letting the intimacy of the last few days and Sam’s smile warm him. Maybe he can stop forwarding the tape now. Maybe he can listen to this song with Sam next to him, where he belongs.

 

“Well the acoustics are great in here,” Sam says, and they are. The music surrounds them, gently filling the space. Every fine enunciation of sound is crystal clear, probably because Dean knows it so well.

 

“Oh hey!” Sam’s grinning. He runs his fingers over statues of stone cherubs, typical in their cherubic poses but holding electric guitars instead of harps. One of them has a drum kit and an un-angelic expression, caught in a moment that might be an epic drum solo.

 

There are hidden alcoves holding statues of Sam; rooms given over to ancient looking books under glass. On closer examination the books hold conversations verbatim: from shooting the breeze after ending a zombie infestation to discussing Sam’s plans to jump into hell with Lucifer onboard. There’s a room of Sam’s clothes, displayed behind glass like the gowns and robes of monarchs and bishops. Torn and oil-streaked t-shirts and a myriad of checked shirts.

 

Dean startles at a moving shadow and they discover a giant rear view mirror, cloistered in the dark space between pillar and wall. There’s something not-quite-right about it. Their reflections are too close somehow, and then it strikes them at the same time. Sam laughs. “No way! Objects in the rear view mirror…”

 

“…may appear closer than they are.” Dean finishes, grinning and shaking his head in mock shame. He has some really weird shit going on in his brain.

 

They find an elaborate stone font being supported by four nudes. Sam scowls at the depictions of naked women but his expression clears when he dips his hand in. “It’s shells, not holy water!” The shells are tiny and fragile and perfect in every way. Dean remembers how fascinated thirteen year old Sam had been, collecting the tiniest shells he could find, just the two of them on a beach in Florida. Sam lets them roll across his palm, studying them and smiling. Seeing Sam smile this much is intoxicating for Dean. He thinks that he might just float up to the ceiling in elation and get plastered there between the intermittent bitch-face grotesques.

 

Sam barrels into him and kisses him fiercely. Dean feels all the joy that Sam puts into the kiss. He talks to Dean with his mouth and hands, tells him how surprised and pleased he feels, how much he wants Dean, touching and grasping every part of him. Hot and hungry, pushing Dean's shirt up.

 

“But…” Dean hesitates. Being naked here would feel weird. He casts around nervously, which is crazy, really, because he’s pretty sure there’s no one else around, and if there is then he’s going to need more tattoos.

 

“Hey, this isn’t a real cathedral, we’re in your head Dean.” Sam’s looming, so Dean straightens up with a scowl. “Anyway, this is…” Sam spreads his arms, palms up, “…a temple to me. I’m God here and I say get your clothes off.” His grin is only just on the safe side of manic. Definitely predatory and sexy as hell. Dean really does want Sam’s hands all over his naked flesh, and vice versa, but he still gives the customary eye roll as he complies, and then helps Sam get naked too.

 

They kiss gently when they come together again, pressing lips and bodies and lapping tongues, bumping cocks. Heat builds deliciously and they both reach down, jostling to get a grip on the other’s cock without separating too far. Dean is really starting to enjoy himself when Sam _stops_ and pushes him away to arm’s length. He tries to press back in but Sam’s smiling ruefully. “If you come we’re gonna wake up Dean, and I’m not ready to wake up yet. More to see. Want to fly.”

 

Dean groans and rests his head against Sam’s, reining himself in. Then he puts his arms around Sam’s neck, closes his eyes and concentrates on the feeling he gets in his dreams of flying. Sam sucks in an audible breath and it echoes around them as they rise up into the reaches of the central dome. Dean opens his eyes. The glass above them is clear and blue with sky, the anti-possession symbol, their shared tattoo, neat and symmetrical in the center. There’s a small gallery ringing the base of the dome and Dean carefully sets them down on it.

 

“Sammy,” he whispers, brushing a kiss against Sam’s lips. _Sammy,_ comes the echo, after a pause, and then, _love you,_ next time round, which is odd because Dean didn’t say that out loud. _Need you._ It’s Dean’s voice, whisper-quiet. _Love you._ The pause between whispers make it feel like a pulse. _Sammy… Love you… Need you… Sammy_.  

 

Sam whispers, _Oh!_ And then his voice joins Deans; things that he doesn’t say running around the gallery and brushing past them like a touch or a breath. _Dean… Sammy… Love you… Want you… Hold me… Dean…_

 

Sam’s eyes are wide and filled with awe. It’s the look that Dean lived for when they were younger, still lives for now. Sam tugs at his arm and Dean lifts him again, no explanation necessary. They float carefully back through the body of the cathedral and then they’re out, through the wide open doors. The sky is a gentle blue with the promise of later heat. Probably sunrise on a summer morning in Kansas Dean thinks.

 

They float and soar, diving and hovering, experimenting with touch. If Dean lets go then Sam drops like stone. They only try it once and Dean swoops down easily to catch him but Sam keeps a firm grip on Dean’s wrist for a while afterwards.

 

They spot the Impala below, like a tiny black beetle but unmistakable, kicking up dust, alone on the road. Dean takes them close enough to see in through the rear windshield. They rush along, keeping pace with the car, close enough to smell the earth. There are two boys asleep on the backseat, curled in blankets and into each other. Dean pulls them up and away before they see the driver.

 

They glide for a while and then Dean lets them hover, needing to kiss Sam and feel them together, close. Sam lets him keep going this time and Dean indulges. Maintaining contact with Sam is definitely not going to be a problem. They shift and push, trying different ways of fitting together that are made possible by being weightless. Dean knows that he should be cold up here but he’s starting to burn up. They each have a thigh shoved between the other’s legs. Dean loves the prickly feeling of Sam’s hairy thigh, firm muscle pressing against his perineum and ass. He wriggles and rubs, his balls rolling and pushing against Sam’s leg as well. Sam has his cock in a firm grip, just as he has Sam. They keep leaning in to kiss and leaning back to get more leverage. Dean knows that he’s going to have to kick this dream root habit for both of them before it gets a hold, if it’s not already too late, because the possibilities are incredible.

 

“I think,” Sam pants, “I think you’re beautiful… Dean,” he squirms on Dean’s thigh and the feeling of all Sam’s most intimate parts on his leg do lovely things to Dean’s cock. He feels himself moisten. “Beautiful on the inside,” Sam’s voice is gravelly with arousal, his eyes dark. Dean’s body feeds off it.

 

“Maybe not… all nice… there was… _oh Jesus Sammy…_ a crypt I think, underneath.” Dean’s almost there. He feels electric all over, sparking off Sam. Sizzling.

 

“A crypt? Dean! There’s a crypt!? I want to see it! I need to see it!”

 

Sam’s grip tightens in his excitement, murdering Dean’s cock and Dean thrusts helplessly and spasms, coming completely undone, spilling and spilling over Sam’s hand…

 

…and then Dean’s awake, lying on his back next to Sam and humping fresh air, spilling come on his stomach.

 

Sam’s cock is still straining in his sleep and his stomach is awash with precome. Sam is a tableau of frenzied beauty. His body is both uninhibited and abandoned in sleep, and tensed on the very brink of sexual abandon. Dean feels guilty for looking, although he couldn’t look away now for anything, and he feels honored that he has been given permission to appreciate Sam this way.

 

Sleep clears from Sam like water off a duck’s back. He goes from restful to intensely focused in a huge surge of energy, lunging for Dean and clamping his head in giant hands. “You were gone and I was falling,” Sam growls. He rolls on top and kisses Dean with such ferocity that his mouth is sure to bruise. “You came on purpose,” he hisses and kisses him again, thrusting the solid length his cock into the slimy mess of Dean’s abdomen and hips, sliding and thrusting harder, looking for friction. “I’ve got to… uhh _Dean_ … got to get back _in there_ … have to _see_ … _DEAN_ ,” and Dean holds him, his own body clenching in sympathy as Sam rides out his orgasm and collapses onto him with the weight of three women.

 

The joy of being blanketed by Sam wins out over needing to breathe properly, until Dean realizes that Sam has fallen asleep. He grunts a laugh and shifts Sam to his side, keeping one of Sam’s arms draped over his chest. He makes a half-assed attempt at wiping them off and presses a kiss to his brother’s sweaty forehead.

 

It’s a while before Dean drifts back off to sleep. There’s a song pushing through the surface of his subconscious but this time it’s not Zeppelin; this time it’s Leonard Cohen singing.

 _I love you in the morning_  
_Your kisses deep and warm_  
_Your hair upon the pillow_  
_Like a sleepy golden storm_ ...

It’s a sad song but Dean doesn’t feel sad.

He feels timeless. He feels alive.

**Author's Note:**

> I had to use music after reading Sure Got a Dirty Mouth by JustineDelarge. I guess you’ve probably already read it, played the music over the rain noises… just gah. If not then you’re missing out big time. I only knew Stairway to Heaven before but now I’m a Zeppelin convert :D
> 
> I know Dean probably wouldn’t be caught dead listening to Leonard Cohen but it was the song that popped into my head and wouldn’t go away. 
> 
> If you ever find yourself in Malta then visit St John's Co-cathedral in Valetta. The floors are paved with marbled tomb stones, skeletal knights and stuff. It's crazy-creepy.
> 
> The whispering gallery is from St Paul's, London. 
> 
> Anyone who has read Douglas Adams’ Trilogy in Five Parts will remember the bit where Arthur and Fenchurch go *flying* over Hounslow. So yeah, sex in flight without an aeroplane is all Douglas Adams and apparently the idea got its claws into me and hitched a ride. I salute you Sir, wherever you are. Probably stuck in a lift with Ford and Zaphod. You were the funniest gigantor of all.


End file.
